Knives and Bullet Trains
by Eyeneversleep
Summary: For the prompt from livejournals: Inception kink meme. Song fic-"Set the Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol. First Arthur runs from him then desperately searches for him around the world, fearing he'll only have him in his dreams A/E. M for language


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A/N: This fic was for a prompt from livejournal's: Inception_kink meme. The prompt is a song fic based off: "Set the Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright. The OP wanted it to be based off the song and to include either Arthur, Cobb or Eames so I included all three!:)

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Inception or the beautiful song.**

* * *

_Set the Fire to the Third Bar._

_find the map and draw a straight line_  
_Over rivers, farms, and state lines_  
_The distance from 'A' to where you'd be_  
_It's only finger-lengths that I see_  
_I touch the place where I'd find your face_  
_My fingers in creases of distant dark places_

_I hang my coat up in the first bar_  
_There is no peace that I've found so far_  
_The laughter penetrates my silence_  
_As drunken men find flaws in science_

_Their words mostly noises_  
_Ghosts with just voices_  
_Your words in my memory_  
_Are like music to me_

_I'm miles from where you are,_  
_I lay down on the cold ground_  
_I, I pray that something picks me up_  
_And sets me down in your warm arms_

_After I have travelled so far_  
_We'd set the fire to the third bar_  
_We'd share each other like an island_  
_Until exhausted, close our eyelids_  
_And dreaming, pick up from_  
_The last place we left off_  
_Your soft skin is weeping_  
_A joy you can't keep in_

_I'm miles from where you are,_  
_I lay down on the cold ground_  
_And I, I pray that something picks me up_  
_and sets me down in your warm arms_

_I'm miles from where you are,_  
_I lay down on the cold ground_  
_and I, I pray that something picks me up_  
_and sets me down in your warm arms_

* * *

He knew he had fucked up.

Now even Dom hated him.

He felt like him, he was beginning to hate trains.

He begrudgingly looked to the small window and watched as the blurry landscape whizzed past him at a freighting fast pace making him feel slightly dizzy.

He was starting to forget whether he was coming or going and how he got to this point; he was burning the candle at both ends. He pinched at his eyes feeling the room spin a little.

He thought of his face and finally remembered through his tired and foggy mind.

He nestled back into his plush seat, his eyelids feeling they weighed a ton each. He let them flutter close-hoping he wouldn't dream of him again.

* * *

The knife plunged into Tokyo with a CRACK.

His muscles were trembling, arms and hands aching and feeling like they could have oncoming blisters, his mind was sloshy and the room was slightly spinning.

His eyes darted to his desk with his shoddy list; he traced a smudgy, black finger down it trying to remember where he had left off. He found it after much difficulty, his eyes betraying him. He trained his bleary eyes to the huge map of the world tacked to the far wall, knives protruding out of it all over. He readied and aimed his knife at Sweden, throwing it and stabbing Stockholm a second later.

He felt vindicated but angry at the same time-so many knives, so many places. He reached for the vodka, not bothering to fix a drink this time; he put the cool bottle to his lips, liking the burning feeling as it traveled down his throat.

He stumbled to put the bottle back on the desk, nearly spilling it all in the process. He was beyond caring. He liked the warmth flood his body and how still and quiet the warehouse was, all the lights were off except for the couple by his work area.

He grasped the desk, wanting an anchor, feeling the dim room spin a little as he tried to concentrate on his list again. His eyes were seeing double and in a mad moment he pushed all the papers off his desk in a fluid, theatrical movement. Papers went flying everywhere like dying white birds, fluttering aimlessly to rest on the cold concrete, littering the ground.

Again he really couldn't begin to care, he really just wanted to drink and throw the damn knives now, to work out his anger.

So many knives. He had been chasing him for so long. No matter how much research and intel he gathered he was always four steps behind him it seemed, always feeling so close, his feet deep in his footsteps as he walked into a hotel or restaurant he was just at, a faint trace of him everywhere, practically feeling his heat, breathing in his aftershave, his tobacco, the slight smell of sweat as he rushed off to one place or another. Now all he had were lists, endless lists of places he had been recently, places he always ended up chasing his own shadow.

He saw him everywhere-every bar, every hotel, every station, strangers faces morphed into his, mocking him. He didn't know if he wanted to embrace it or run from it.

He asked himself yet again how he got to this point. His mind always went back to their one and only night together, him mumbling: "This was a mistake", catapulting off the bed, scrambling to get his clothes in the dark, practically jumping into them and then he was fleeing, vanishing to the night and the dark, empty streets.

He didn't want complications. Eames was the epitome of complications-he was desperately running away from and also to him.

He was going to reach for the bottle to drown that thought out when his hands brushed a knife instead. He thought Spain needed a good slicing.

He was in mid throw but was interrupted and became startled when he heard and then saw someone approach his work space; he pivoted in the direction and the knife flew from his hand, narrowly missing the man stepping out of the shadows.

Dom dodged the knife within an inch of his life, his shock turning into hard anger almost instantly as the knife clattered to the ground making a large sound as it echoed through the hall.

"Jesus fucking Christ Arthur!"

Arthur couldn't stop laughing; he couldn't get the image of almost flaying Dom like a fish out of his mind. He bent over, clutching his legs, gasping for breath, feeling the chuckles rock his body, making his stomach ache. He laughed less he would cry though he convinced himself that he had forgotten how-having used the last of them at his mother's funeral, over eight years ago. He hadn't allowed himself after that.

He didn't see Dom approach; vice grip hands were on his collar suddenly, bringing him up to his face which was twisted into hard anger.

"You better knock this shit out before you get me or yourself killed. You understand?" Dom shook him a little, narrowed his steely eyes and gave him that knowing stare. Arthur still couldn't stop laughing.

He felt a hard slap on his face a second later which sobered him up quickly, his face burning, and the laughter in his throat dead.

"I'm tired of it Arthur, this pity, self loathing, self destructive shit has to stop. You're no good to me like this. Take some time off."

Arthur nodded because he thought he should, to placate him. He reached around Dom for one of his knives but Dom caught on and shoved his hand away and then rudely released him, sending an impossibly intoxicated Arthur stumbling backward.

Arthur stupidly watched as Dom collected all the remaining knives, muttering and cursing as he did, struggling with the ones still in the wall.

Once they were all tucked back neatly in the case, underneath Dom's arm, he shot the point man a look, jabbing a finger at him.

"Go home."

* * *

He did but only briefly to sober up, he didn't like the silence of his apartment.

He believed he was on week two of his nonstop trek to find him, but he really couldn't be too sure anymore.

Time really had no meaning; he was only aware that he was getting more and more desperate and lost.

His eyes fluttered open as he felt the train rock. He heard an announcement that his stop was coming up.

He gathered his things and exited the train.

He was only a day behind him now-his research had shown that he had been in this city, this casino only yesterday.

Arthur tried not to be hopeful as he hurried to exit the taxi.

He wasn't there of course, they remembered him when Arthur described him but he wasn't here now. Arthur decided to take a look around himself anyway, he had come all this way after all.

As he walked the casino floors he again got that distinct feeling he just missed him.

He touched the empty craps and roulette tables, sensing him-feeling him as he leaned up against the tables, racking up chips, throwing money down, drink in his other hand, spilling on himself slightly in excitement.

It took all his self control not to cause a scene.

The staff of course had no idea where he went next.

* * *

He had no other leads and since he was feeling particularly sorry for himself he deposited himself at the nearest bar, feeling even more lost.

He ordered single malt whiskey-Eames' drink. He didn't care, he almost embraced it.

He lost himself in the dull hum of the other patron's voices, the game that was on, billiard balls cracking against each other, he didn't want to feel anything.

But it didn't stop him from thinking. He wondered how long he was going to chase him, how much torture he could endure, how long before he gave up.

After the Fischer job everyone scattered, Arthur didn't like having down time.

He waited two months before teaming up with another extractor.

It wasn't the same and he had to admit that he missed his other colleagues.

Attachments were killer-he swore to never have them. In the line of work he was in he couldn't afford them, everything was so up in the air.

He was in a train coming back from Rome.

He was expecting him to call, like he was patiently waiting.

"Where are you?" He sounded like he was in the center of the universe, the traffic sounds blaring in the background.

Arthur suppressed a laugh. "Rome, just leaving actually. More importantly where are you?"

"New York, stopped by to visit a friend."

"You don't have any friends in New York." He pictured him outside his apartment building in New York, staring up at the large complex.

"Arthur, that hurts my feelings. Where are you off to next? I'll meet you."

"Is this business related?"

"It could be."

"Then no," he hung up.

He called back the next day.

He was again anticipating it.

"I'm racking up a lot of flyer miles."

"Good for you."

"I missed that dry sarcasm, that mock caring."

"What do you want?"

"To see you of course, to talk."

"So talk."

"Face to face, love."

"No," and he hung up again.

He loved torturing him, it was so easy.

He beat him at his own game though and found him when he was in Madrid a week later.

He approached his outdoor table in the small, crowded cafe, seemingly out of nowhere.

He was almost surprised, almost.

Eames took his espresso without asking, downing it in one shot.

"You're a hard man to find."

"I'm good at disappearing."

"I bet," he deposited himself in the chair across from him, unbuttoning his faded, rumpled suit coat, crossing his leg, leaning back into the chair.

"What are you running from?"

Arthur snapped his finger for the waiter's attention, pretending not to hear him.

Eames had leaned forward in his chair, frowning, searching his eyes.

"Not me I hope?"

The waiter appeared. He ordered them both espressos.

He watched the pigeons in the town square, lovers walking hand and hand in the morning's peaceful rays, the endless stream of traffic and tourists running around with cameras.

He didn't like how he was feeling.

They sat in respective silence, sipping their drinks, he tried to avoid his eyes but it was like trying to not watch a disaster unfold, rubbernecking when a car crash happens, you don't want to but you have to look.

Eames insisted on paying.

"Pay me back by showing me Madrid."

He did, not liking how his company made him feel-exposed, vulnerable, wide open.

They could laugh together despite the constant unspoken feud they had, their competiveness, their misgivings, constant jabs and snarky comments.

He really had no idea how that night desperately slipped away from him, how Eames convinced him to have dinner with him, ordering for him and getting him much too drunk, how they walked the warm spring night, past fountains and canals, shops and squares, jackets thrown over their shoulders to his hotel, fumbling up to his room. He wasn't sure how it had happened at all, who made the first move; it was like it was unspoken between them that it didn't matter. And it felt good, much too good as they undressed quickly in the dark, the curtains wide open, the traffic lights in streams below, his much too warm hands all over him, guiding him, fucking him.

When the last bit of alcohol had drained from his body and he felt him stir next to him, jostling him, he bolted awake. He had to get out, he couldn't do this. It was a mistake and he told him as much as he pathetically collected his clothes scattered everywhere, throwing them on and left. He only faintly realized that Eames was still asleep; it was the middle of the god damn night.

It made him feel all the more pathetic.

The dull ache in his chest started the next day only to grow worse.

He ignored it at first of course but as the weeks rolled on it turned into a searing pain and he realized he couldn't.

He had done something even more impossible than inception: he had managed to worm his way into his blackened, cold, hard heart

He wouldn't return his calls no matter how many messages he left, he deserved it.

The search for him commenced and Arthur felt he was slipping more and more into a dark place.

He tried to convince himself that he was searching for him so that he could apologize. He was never very good at deceiving himself. He wanted so much more than giving an apology.

* * *

He remembered raised voices, throwing a drink in someone's face when they told him he had enough, that he was drunk enough. He could never be drunk enough to forget him.

He remembered sailing through the air, the cold concrete meeting him with a sickening crack, fists and legs connecting bringing exploding pain, metallic blood taste in his mouth, wafts of garbage smell hitting his nostrils, someone rifling through his pants for his wallet; he very much wanted to die.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, pathetic, trembling, and alone, slipping away in a city that had no name, no meaning and no solace.

He held onto the image of his face before the darkness swallowed him up completely.

* * *

He had been dreaming, he had to be.

Bits and pieces of memories flashed in his mind like broken fragments of mirror reflecting on the past, or it could have been the present, he was very disorientated and wanted to reach for his totem, a warm hand found him instead. His eyes hurt, everything hurt so he kept them closed. He tried to find his voice but could only choke something incoherent out, it hurt just to breathe.

A warm hand was on his forehead, brushing his hair back in the most calming and nurturing of gestures.

He felt sleep tugging at him and thought he must be on the bullet train still, he must still be dreaming.

* * *

His body was floating somewhere.

He felt that the pain wasn't as bad, he chanced opening his eyes, ready to disconnect from the PASIV. His eyes met harsh, blinding light streaming in from a window. The IV trailing from his arm was all wrong and as his eyes adjusted to the light he groaned with the revelation, closing his eyes again, wanting to disappear.

He heard movement and someone took a seat next to him, a warm hand was in his again, squeezing.

"Are you awake?"

Arthur eyes flew open at the familiar voice, he turned his head with much difficulty and his warbling vision took him in, he looked as bad as he felt.

"Yeah," his throat burned and it was hard to get the words out.

Eames smiled and kissed his hand, murmuring something like: "Thank God".

He wanted his totem so badly, he was itching for it. This wasn't right. He had been searching for him for months and now he was so close, wrapping him up in his soft voice and affections. It couldn't be real. He must be in limbo.

He searched his eyes and Eames knew, he had the uncanny ability to pick up on his thoughts and emotions even before he knew what they were, that's why he was so good at forging.

Without a word Eames left his side, removing his warmth and walked to the opposite side of room, back turned to him.

He quickly returned with a large, clear bag that held his meager processions. His red, loaded die stood out amongst the stark contrast of the dark.

He placed the bag in Arthur's lap, within his reach. He didn't like the way his hands shook as he reached in to retrieve his totem, rolling it and it coming up four. He released a breath. He rolled it again, it coming up the same; he collapsed back into the bed feeling immediately lighter.

He was aware that Eames was watching him the entire time.

"Satisfied?"

Arthur rubbed at his eyes, pent up tears threatening to fall. He was overly relieved that he found him and that it was indeed real this time. He wouldn't make the same mistake again if Eames allowed him to show him.

"Only if you stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere this time," he took his hand as if to further drive home the point.

* * *

When he was well enough they took the bullet train back to the station, to go back home, wherever that was, not caring because they were finally together.


End file.
